Playing God
by forsakenfuckery
Summary: Written Sequel to the 2003 film, GOTHIKA. Fourteen years after the death of Douglas Grey and Miranda is still haunted by the acts that she committed alongside the ghost of Rachel Parsons. But her fear mostly, is not for herself, it is for her daughter; Isadora.


Isadora, 14

He stared at me expectantly, and It was typical behavior for someone when you asked them to speak privately. In the awkward silence, he decided to lean against my desk, looking down at me patiently, yet somehow eager, as I sat in my desk chair. "What's this about?" The bass in his voice scared me shitless, I'd zoned out- as usual. What was I supposed to say? Where was I to start? I could already look up into those eyes of his and see the way they already analyzed me. That was the disadvantage of having to psychiatrists for parents, you never knew when they were being straight up or giving you a clinical answer. Clincal answers were different from honest-to-God opinions; clincal answers were what they were supposed to say, answers that had very little place in the real world; and opinions were what they wanted to say, answers that could be your life line in the dog-eat-dog world we all found ourselves in.

"I've been feeling... things," Due to the sudden change in course of our conversation, I could feel the tension build between us. His face went emotionless and his stance became awkward. "Maybe... maybe you shoud talk with your mother about this... I wasn't trained for this conversat-" My eyes widened and my ears turned pink at the tips. "OH MY GOD, _EW_. Wh-what do you think I'm talking about?" He cleared his throat, total silence following a non-commital shrug. "I don't think I should go to camp this year..." Dad was visibly cringing and I had to do my best to stay serious and not crack a smile. "Izzy, I'm serious. If this is some coming-of-age pubescent dilemma you're facing, I'm begging you to talk to your mother about it." I brought my palm to my face in a fit of frustration, "You're scaring me," I joked, trying to hide my laughter. "Yeah? Imagine how I feel. I prayed for a boy."

I looked up at him, a wide grin masking my mouth, "Gee. Thanks Dad." I noticed that he smiled too. That's how it was with the both of us. For as long as I could remember, it seemed, my laughter and smiles were contagious and my father always got infected. My serious tone returned and his brows merged, he clearly sensed my distress.

"I never expected it to be so hard," I said softly, a wary glance given to the man before me, eyes flitting through my thick lashes. He casually rolled up the sleeves of his cotton button-up, his tie already loosened from a hard day of work. He prepared himself to interject my seemingly misguided words, only to be cut off by a new and panicked tone that visibly surprised him as it escaped past my lips. I trembled while exclaiming,"Don't tell mom!"

I saw the pleading look in my father's eyes. He wanted to know what was going on and I sure as hell wouldn't talk to him more in-depth on the subject at hand. "I don't want her to think that I can't be away from home for a few weeks. I just... have this bad feeling." My father, Pete Graham, watched as my forehead transformed from worry and all he could do was nod stiffly. He placed a hand on my shoulder- for support more than anything else- and, to my surprise, it worked quickly to relax me.

"You'll have fun at camp. Don't worry about us, we'll be fine." Did I believe him? No, of course not. But I couldn't just out and say _Grandma told me something bad would happen_. Grandma's dead. "I love you, Dad." The look he gave me then, was unforgettable. It was a look of unfathomable love and adoration. Or maybe he was just shocked due to the fact that for the past five months I'd been going through my _I'm fourteen and loving my parents or showing affection towards them is gross _phase. Whatever it was, though, It was in that moment I knew he'd always be there for me.

There was a rapping at my bedroom door and in came my mother, eyes wide with excitment and some very obvious anxiety. "Knock, knock. You're going to be late." Miranda Graham in all her glory. There wasn't a day my mother didn't look beautiful. My father always said that each night, when we slept, Mom was visited by fairies who continued to grant her with eternal beauty. Even as old as I was, somehow, I still believed that story to be true. "All my stuff is packed, I'm ready to hit the road."

"I guess that means I have two hours of extra work before I can kick back and relax. And to think I took off early today," Dad smiled at me, his right hand moving to fist at his dark locks. Of course he wasn't being serious, he would climb Everest from me if need be. According to my Uncle Joe, who wasn't actually my Uncle, I had both my parents wrapped around my fingers since birth. I found that slightly ironic seeing as how, apparently, when they found out about me- their unexpected and highly unplanned bundle of joy- they nearly pissed bricks. Part of me thinks that the only reason they didn't want children to begin with was because they saw it as, not only pure narscism but, cruel and unusual punishment. The world was an insanely messed up place and they probably feared, after working with patients at Woodward, that their baby girl or boy would end up in one of those cells.

Mom laughed, a sound that could literally silence a room in complete awe. I had blanked out apparently. I spun around in my desk chair to face my embracing parents more directly. A tiny smile possessed my lips at the sound of my mother pleading for the oppurtunity to spend two hours in the car, driving me to Camp Victory. Dad smiled down at her, "No, it's okay. I'll do it, you two spend too much time together as it is, I barely get a second alone with her." That was a lie. I hadn't spent any time alone with Mom in months, I always found a way to weasel out of it. In reality, the truth was, I neglected my mother and showered my father with bonding time. There was just something about my mother, something about the way my friends talked about her, something in the eyes of all the other moms at the PTA meetings, something I didn't trust completely. I confided in Dad about it a few weeks ago, and funny thing, he lied to me- right to my face- and told me to ignore everyone.

I couldn't ignore it.

"You two be safe, then," was all my mother could bring herself to say, defeat lacing her voice. She glanced at me and, for a moment, I was determined to hold the eye contact. Mom looked away and placed a kiss upon her husband's lips. It was behavior like that that I couldn't ignore. Any other mother, one in their right mind, would have demanded quality time; would have demanded explanations for my crudeness. Unless she had something to hide and didn't want to press the issue of my dismissal.

I couldn't ignore it.


End file.
